Poisoned (The Alex Harris Mystery Series) (17 page)

John laughed. “Yes, he is that. But he also seems to be exactly what he claims to be. We’ve done a background check. You know that new office complex in Stamford? Well, he did that.”

“That’s really nice. We have a client over there,” I said, again marveling at the contrast between developer and the things he developed.

“You sound so surprised.”

“Well, I guess I didn’t expect him to be involved in anything real. He looks like such a big phony.”

“As far as we can tell, he truly wants that land for exactly what he claims he wants it for. Now the question is does he want the land enough to kill for it?”

“I know he certainly plans on getting it.” I realized my slip and tried to look away.

“How do you know this?” John asked, though with more amusement than annoyance.

“Okay…” I placed my hands on the table. “I stopped by his office. And before you go getting mad, he invited me. He wanted to show me the plans.”

“Did you get a chance to see them or did your investigation get in the way?”

As long as John still had a smile on his face, I decided to come clean. “The plans are quite good. Though I’d hate to see the land torn up like that.
Do not let spacious plans for a new world divert your energies from saving what is left of the old
,” I quoted, haughtily pointing a finger at John as if he were the enemy. “I’m all for progress but it just sickens me to see that area torn up, though if something has to go there, his designs are as good as any, maybe better. And if you can believe this, he still plans on putting pressure on Mrs. Brissart.”

“Yes, I can believe it.” John poured a bit of wine into his glass and asked if I wanted any.

“No. I’m too tired. I’d like to stay awake at least long enough to eat my dinner.”

On cue, our plates arrived and we ate in silence for a few minutes savoring our dishes.

“A thought occurred to me…” I reached across the table and poked a fork into an al dente penne lathered in Gorgonzola. “You know, if Mrs. Brissart died, God forbid, wouldn’t her portion of the land go to her son? Because I doubt he would sign it away either. Maybe we should be keeping an eye on
his
safety.”

“As a matter of fact, no, the land would not go to Kenneth. It would revert to the surviving sisters. And the last to go gets to give it to her family or the local cat shelter if so inclined. Kind of odd, but that’s how Mrs. Brissart’s father left it.” John sighed and took another sip of his wine.

“So another good reason for getting rid of Mrs. Brissart surfaces. With her dead, not only could they sell it but those two sisters would get to keep all the profits to themselves and not have to share with Kenneth and Lillian. I say this definitely gets Mrs. Brissart off the hook.”

“Alex.”

“I’m sorry. It just makes it seem all the more likely it had to be May or June or one of their children hoping to get something in the end.” John conceded and nodded his agreement. “I wonder if J.T. knows about this arrangement. If he does, that would put him at the top of my list.”

“If it makes you happy, I am not concentrating
all
my efforts on Mrs. Brissart,” John said.

“No? Who else is on your list?” I asked hopefully.

“No one and everyone at the moment.” John paused to signal the waiter for a glass of water. “We’re checking into the finances of the family. Seems Mrs. Doliveck took out a second mortgage on her home.”

“Do tell.” I smiled, remembering how shabby the back yard looked and the peeling wallpaper. As for the rest of the house, I chose not to think about it while eating.

“And, she let her housekeeper go about six months ago. Seems to indicate she’s financially strapped.” John took another sip of wine.

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” I reflected. “That explains a lot.”

“Like what?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing. Just thinking to myself.” It was time to change the subject. “How’s Jim doing?”

“Fine. He seems very bright. Quiet, though. Doesn’t say much. When he does, he’s very soft spoken, gentle. I would have never fingered him for police work.”

I only had contact with the new detective a few times but my impression was much the same. He seemed too tender to make this his life career. John possessed a bit of an edge to him, a confidence, and the absolute certainty he was one of the good guys.

I looked in the breadbasket and took the last piece. “Maybe he’s just too new to everything. A few more days with this bunch should make him jaded enough. He’ll be fine. Or he’ll decide this isn’t what he’s cut out to do and go into something else. Maybe kindergarten teaching. He seems like he’d be good with kids, very patient.”

The waiter arrived to clear away our plates and take orders for dessert. John told me his mother wanted us to come for dinner on Sunday, but he refused. His mother Harriett was a short ball of energy, and always happy. His father Stan was a nice man, but a bit quiet. I felt they secretly hoped this was it for John. He came close to getting married to a woman in Boston with whom he had a long relationship, but it ended about two years ago. I never asked for details. Some things I didn’t have to know.

“I’m sorry about his weekend, but I’m looking forward to seeing Mary-Beth, and Sam and Millie are coming too. I called Meme and she’s coming along as well.” Mary-Beth and I had been friends for years and though we didn’t see each other very often, sometimes only a couple times a year, we always had plenty to talk about. And Mary-Beth always had some good gossip about a former classmate.

We finished off our dessert while John tried to stifle a yawn. A half hour later we were back at my house. When I came out of the bathroom John was sound asleep across the bed.

In case I haven’t mentioned it, I love Connecticut, especially autumn in Connecticut. So it gave me great delight that Saturday began with one of those mornings one would normally see on a postcard. The few clouds that lingered in the deep, ocean-blue sky were of the white and fluffy variety; the air crisp like a Pippin apple straight off a tree. Oaks, birches, and maples swayed gently, dropping leaves of rich russets and golds to an earth already covered in a quilt of autumn colors. It felt good to get out of Indian Cove for the day.

The five of us drove along the turnpike in Sam’s minivan, which we packed with enough food and drink to last for a seven-day, cross-country trip.

“Where are we headed?” Millie asked from the back seat where she sat next to Meme.

Sam, who took the Merritt Parkway to the Eight and now traveled north to the One-Eighteen said, “Litchfield. That direction anyway. We’ll just see what we find.”

“I don’t care where we’re going. It’s just nice to be out with young people for a change,” Meme said.

A short while later we arrived at one of my favorite places, Litchfield, the perfect example of a New England village centered around a church and town common. All of Litchfield County, in fact, was heavenly. Bordered on one side by Dutchess County in New York, and on another side by Berkshire County, Massachusetts, it was hard to imagine this beautiful land had been settled by Calvinists who would surely be appalled by the pleasures found in this part of the country. The area had become a playground for the rich, and the land prices grew to nothing short of scandalous. The Puritan forefathers would most certainly be ashamed, but we five driving along in the minivan gave no thought whatsoever to the founding fathers.

Country inns dotted the entire county, and judging by the amount of people, I knew better than to think John and I would have been able to find a room at the height of the fall colors.

Leaf peepers, as the locals called the tourists who came from all over to get a glimpse of the foliage, packed the streets. We played tourists for a bit, taking in the glorious day and the fresh air while popping into an occasional shop.

Back in the van, Sam did the driving while I held on for dear life.

“Hey, Millie,” Sam called from the front, “it must be time for some of those snacks you brought, don’t you think?” Sam smiled sweetly into the rearview mirror.

Millie pulled out the container filled with the goodies her grandmother made. “What do you want? A cheese ball, a little quiche, or some vegetables?”

“I’ll take a few of each.”

“Sam, if you want to eat, then let me drive,” I volunteered more out of a sense of wanting to live my life for a few more years than out of being helpful to my sister.

“Thanks, but it’s no problem. I can eat and drive at the same time.”

I rolled my eyes at Meme. “Are you alright, Meme?”

Meme, who sat between Millie and Mary-Beth, gave me a wave of the hand. “Oh, this is nothing, honey. I usually drive with Theresa and she’s got a lead foot and a bad eye. Not a good combination for driving a car. And sometimes Fred likes to take the wheel and he’s over ninety. Sam is doing fine.”

Millie handed a napkin with little munchies to a smirking Sam and I thought I might as well eat something too. It might be my last meal.

“So, when are you going to tell me all about this murder you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in, Alex?” Mary-Beth teased from the back seat.

I told the group what I learned so far ending with my visit to J.T.’s office the day before.

“So that’s where you went to in such a hurry. I could have gone with you,” Sam said sounding a bit hurt. “What’s he like?”

“Well, let’s just say that
he is a modest little man who has a good deal to be modest about
.”

“Is that your opinion or Winston’s?” Sam asked cutting her eyes at me.

“Winston’s. I think J.T. is a complete jerk. I’m not as eloquent as Winnie.” I adjusted my sunglasses and ran a hand through my short hair. “I feel guilty telling you all I know. John told me to keep my lip zipped. I seem to vaguely remember him saying something to the effect of ‘Alex, we are not a team where murder investigations are concerned. This is my area of expertise. Just let me handle it.’”

Meme gave a short cackle from the back seat. “He knows you’re going to tell us. He just has to say something to cover his butt.”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to tell him,” Mary-Beth offered. “Do the police have any concrete suspects?”

I hesitated, wondering if I should share the Mrs. Brissart-as-the-culprit theory. Why not, I rationalized. If Mrs. Brissart was guilty, everyone would know soon enough, and if she wasn’t, well, then it didn’t much matter. “John is looking at Mrs. Brissart as a possible suspect.”

“The grandmother?” Mary-Beth asked.

Sam momentarily lost control of the car, though it was hard to notice. “Still? Alex, he can’t be serious.”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid he is. Though I think he’s faltering on that front. I think even John would admit there’s not much to go on. And while I don’t think for one moment she could possibly be guilty,” I continued, “June said a few things about her that seem to be totally out of character with the Mrs. Brissart we all know and love.”

Sam pulled into the second lane to pass an elderly couple pulling a camper. “Like what?”

“Well, June says Mrs. Brissart throws her relationship with Charles in June’s face every chance she gets. That’s a petty, vindictive thing to do. I don’t see Mrs. Brissart acting like that.”

“June could be lying or she’s just so consumed by her own hatred that she perceives Mrs. Brissart to be acting that way,” Millie said.

“I’m sure that’s it,” I mused, “but I would sure like to know what happened to Charles and if he’s still around.”

“A grandmother couldn’t kill her grandchild,” Meme said in such a soft voice that everyone turned to look at her—even Sam.

Mary-Beth took Meme’s chubby hand. “Mrs. Redmond, we didn’t mean to upset you.”

I reached to the back seat and patted my grandmother’s arm. She had tears in her eyes. “Meme, John doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Of course Mrs. Brissart didn’t kill her grandson. He’s just trying to cover all bases.”

“You said something about the family history,” Millie said as she passed the container of food to Meme who smiled and took a little quiche.

“I printed up a copy for myself and took it home to read.” I paused for a moment while I chewed on a carrot stick. I reached for another and continued, “It’s all very interesting, but I don’t see how it fits into things.”

“Maybe it doesn’t. I mean, maybe it’s not the long ago history. Maybe it’s something more recent,” Mary-Beth suggested.

“Like what?” I asked, turning in my seat.

“Maybe Bradley found out something about one of his aunts or cousins. Like an abortion or a prison term.”

“Would someone kill over an abortion?” Millie asked.

“Probably not. But if something like that happened to May or June, I know they would want it kept quiet. You know, Mary-Beth,” I said, “It could be something like that. I’ve read the history and there’s nothing there as far as I can see. It just might make sense that while doing the research, Bradley found out something a little closer to home and modern times.”

“All this makes sense if Bradley was the intended victim all along, but didn’t you say something to me over the phone that the police think it was Mrs. Brissart they were after?” Mary-Beth asked. “If so, then why does John suspect her?”

“Good question. He’s a cop. He suspects everyone. That’s the problem. Without knowing who was supposed to die in the first place, we’re not sure where to search. If it was Bradley, then the history seems to be the only logical reason. Though there’s nothing there worth killing over. Now, if it were Mrs. Brissart, then the land would be the reason or maybe her past relationship with Charles. And we have a whole slew of suspects. But like I mentioned to Millie and Sam yesterday, why did they wait so long to kill her?”

Mary-Beth reached into the container and took a cheese ball. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“As far as I can gather, the family started to badger Mrs. Brissart about the land during the summer. She refused to sell right from the first. So why wait until now to do something?”

“Interest rates are going up,” Sam offered.